


Trust Me, Trust Me, Darling Dear

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A brushes B's long hair and puts it up in a fancy style (or takes it down and brushes it), Character A doing Character B's hair before something important, Clothing Cutting, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Cunnilingus, Dancing, F/F, Feelings, Ghosts, Hair Braiding, Knife Play, Masks, Weird Geography Where Logic Gets Tangled And Also Maybe There Are Ghosts, haunted forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28605633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: Missy offered to show the Doctor something new.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	Trust Me, Trust Me, Darling Dear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



> Title is from _Trust Me_ , from Devil's Carnival.

"Can I get a _hint_ , at least?" The Doctor rocked on her heels outside of the bathroom door, her hands in the pockets of her coat.

"It's the type of place you'll like," came Missy's voice from the other side of the bathroom door. 

"That doesn't narrow it down," said the Doctor. 

"It isn't going to be any _proper_ kind of fun," said Missy, and the Doctor could hear the pout event through the door and the steam and the patter of the water. “I made sure there won’t be anyone killable, or volcanoes, or a civil war about to start, or all the squillions of other tools we could have to make our own entertainment. So this will be _your_ kind of fun. Which is to say, boring.” The water turned off, the pipes squeaking. 

_I didn’t know she could ever consider someone who isn’t killable_ , the Doctor thought, drumming her fingers on her arm. “So why did you ask me to come to your room, exactly?”

“I need your help,” Missy said, and there was the sound of the glass shower door being slid to the side, and the various body sounds that came with someone drying themselves off, followed by a brief burst of sound - that must have been the sonic hair dryer. 

“Do you?” The Doctor tried not to let her surprise seep into her voice. Missy had never been good at asking for any kind of help, even back when they were children. 

… not that the Doctor was one to talk, come to think of it, but that was neither here nor there.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Missy said, and the door opened in a billow of peppermint steam. “So will you help me?”

“What are you asking me to help you with, specifically?” The Doctor tried to keep her eyes from lingering on Missy’s bare shoulders, the bony vulnerability of her shoulder blades, the acres of bare leg on display. 

“Really, Doctor, don’t you trust me?” Missy looked at the Doctor over a pale shoulder, one eyebrow arched up. Then she smirked. “No, don’t answer that. I suspect neither of us like what you have to say.”

“What would you like me to help you with?” the Doctor repeated, because she wasn’t going to be goaded into… whatever it was that Missy was trying to goad her into. 

“Do you do hair?” 

The Doctor paused. “What?” That wasn’t what she had expected. 

“Hair,” Missy repeated. “Do you do hair?”

“I need more information,” the Doctor said. “What d’you mean, do I do hair?”

“We are going someplace that requires us to look nice,” Missy said. “I am requesting you to help me do my hair. Do I need to give you a written invitation? I’ll need to find my sealing wax to do so, and even in a time machine, I suspect we’ll be late.” 

“Oh,” said the Doctor. “Well. Yes, I can do your hair. I think. Unless you want something particularly outlandish.”

“With your fashion sense, I tremble to think of what you might consider outlandish,” said Missy. 

“Nothin’ wrong with my dress sense,” said the Doctor, as she went to get all of Missy’s various hair supplies.

“Just be glad I’m dressing you for this event,” Missy said as she sat down on the bed.

“If you gave me more information about wherever it is we’re going,” the Doctor said, dumping everything into a pile on the bed and sitting behind her, “I might be able to match to whatever it is we’re doing.” 

“No,” said Missy, and that was annoying. Not even a quip, or any information. Just _no_. 

Things went quiet, for a little bit. Missy was naked, and her loose hair looked a little bit like the strings on the neck of a guitar. She sighed when the Doctor took the tips of Missy’s hair between two fingers, beginning to carefully comb it out. The Doctor could smell whatever product Missy had put in it - ginger, and something spicy. The room was very quiet, apart from their breath and the quiet sounds of the comb going through Missy’s hair. 

“How d’you want me to do it?” The Doctor began to comb higher towards Missy’s scalp, and she watched some of the tension in Missy’s shoulders relax. The Doctor was being very careful - Missy had once clocked her in the jaw for pulling a tangle. 

“Make it look nice,” Missy said, after a few more minutes. Whatever product she had left in her hair made the comb glide through it with ease, and filled the room with more of the ginger scent. 

“What kind of nice?” The Doctor was combing closer to Missy’s scalp now, tugging on it, and Missy sighed. 

“Nice,” said Missy.

The Doctor took the hair in her hand, carefully, and she ran the comb through it. “There’s different sorts of nice,” said the Doctor. “Can you be a bit more specific?” 

“The kind of nice that goes with that dress,” said Missy, and she indicated the purple glittery thing that was hanging over the back of her wardrobe. 

“Oh,” said the Doctor. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” She took another comb, and began separating Missy’s hair into sections.

“I just did,” Missy said primly. 

The Doctor rolled her eyes, and she began to braid one section. 

There was more quiet, and then Missy spoke. “I don’t remember you having any kind of tonsorial training.” 

"I know a lot of things you wouldn't expect," the Doctor said. The quiet seemed to be getting bigger and bigger, like a massive balloon being blown up between them. The Doctor tied one braid off, and started on the next one. 

"So why do you leave your own hair so unkempt?" Missy asked, in the tone of gentle inquiry. 

"First off, my hair looks proper nice," said the Doctor, starting on another braid. "Second off, it's easier to do other people's hair. You can see all the fiddly bits." She was being careful not to make the braid too tight, as she moved down. 

Missy snorted. “Fiddly bits,” she echoed. “Such a way with words you have.”

"Why do you insist on insulting me when I'm helping you?" asked the Doctor. "Don't you trust me?" She tied off another braid, and began on the next one. The hair treatment had left Missy's hair faintly slippery, and the Doctor had to concentrate as she began to do the next braid. This was familiar, and soothing in its familiarity. She remembered braiding Ace's hair, brushing out Clara's, and washing alien guts out of Rose's, helping curl Sarah Jane's. 

There was something intimate about these little rituals, something comforting. She was almost on autopilot, as she finished off another braid, started on the next one. 

"I've got to stay on brand, dearie," said Missy. "Wouldn't want you to think I was going soft on you, after all." A pause, then; "you can pull harder than _that_." 

_The fact that you haven't tried to murder me in my sleep is probably proof enough_ , the Doctor thought, but she thought it very quietly. Missy was a very adept telepath - much better than the Doctor had ever been, and with all this physical contact, Missy would have been able to pick up on anything that was more than a mental whisper. 

"I left the clothes you're to wear in the wardrobe room," said Missy, as the Doctor started on the last braid. "We'll be a proper pair."

"I can dress myself," the Doctor reminded Missy. She was getting faintly sleepy, from the ginger scent and the warmth. In the quiet moments like this, it was easy to forget just how _dangerous_ Missy was. Especially knowing... well, knowing what the Doctor knew. 

"Just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_ ," Missy said promptly.

The Doctor didn't tell Missy to do her own hair, if she was going to keep up the insults. The other woman asking for help with something was a good sign... in theory, at last. She tied off the last braid, and then she took a pin out of the pile, using it to pin up the first braid. 

"No snappy comeback to that?" Missy asked, after a minute or so of quiet.

"I'm concentrating," the Doctor said, carefully fastening the braid up along the crown of Missy's head with more pins. "You want to look nice, don't you?"

"I do," said Missy, and then, to the Doctor's shock, she was quiet. No snappy comeback, no snark, just the two of them in the bedroom with its red walls, the Doctor pinning braids along Missy's head like a pâtissier decorating a cake. When it was finally done, she leaned back on her heels to admire her handiwork. It had been a long time since she'd done anyone's hair, and it was nice to know she still had the skill. 

"Okay," the Doctor said, after an awkward moment. "D'you need my, uh, help with anything else?" She rubbed her hands together, and the ginger scent got sharper.

"I'll be perfectly fine on my own," Missy said, and she made a dismissing hand gesture. "Shoo. It's bad luck to see me before the big event."

"This isn't a wedding," the Doctor said, frowning, but she stood up anyway. "Wait. This isn't you springing a surprise wedding on me, is it?" She tried not to ogle Missy's nipples, hard in the cooler air of the room, tried not to stare at the softness of Missy's inner thighs and the bony vulnerability of Missy's bare wrists. 

"As if I'd give you any warning about a surprise wedding," Missy said, rolling her eyes. "I mean it. Shoo."

Unreassured, but unsure as to what else to say, the Doctor made her way out.

"I left your outfit on the back of the big purple chair in the wardrobe," Missy called. 

The Doctor closed the door, and she rolled her eyes. It wouldn't hurt to see whatever it was that Missy had gotten her to wear, could it?

* * *

The outfit was... surprisingly straightforward. A pair of black trousers, a white button down shirt, black braces. There was even a long black coat, although it was lined with red silk. There was a mask as well - half a fancy plague doctor's mask, beaked and imposing. The clothing was well made, but none of it looked familiar. 

The trousers were also too long, but that couldn't be helped. Pity she didn't have time to hem them, or she'd have gone and dug up her sewing kit. As it was, she got dressed carefully, transferring things from her regular coat to this coat - the pockets were big enough, at least, and everything fit properly. 

She had to dig up her own bowtie, though. Missy had forgotten. to include it for some reason. She found a nice navy one, with just a bit of a subtle shine to it that an iridescent rainbow rippled across it when it caught the light at the right angle. 

Holding her mask, the Doctor made her way towards the control room. 

* * *

Missy was standing by the panels, fiddling with a dial. She had shed her purple suit jacket, but was otherwise dressed in her usual purple skirt and white blouse, with her lips painted a plum purple and a leather mask covering the top part of her face. The mask had been painted yellow, and there was the hint of ears, a smattering of spots, lines along the nose.

It took her a moment before it caught on - "A cheetah? Really?"

"Suits me, doesn't it?" Missy struck a pose.

"Why'd you ask me to do your hair up like you were wearing that dress, if you weren't going to wear the dress?" 

"It's all about the look I'm _going_ for, dear, not necessarily the look I'm going to wear," Missy said, as if that made any sense. "I set the coordinates in. Shall we?" Then she caught sight of the Doctor's bow tie, and she wrinkled her nose. "Did you have to wear _that_?" 

"It suits me," the Doctor said, adjusting the bowtie absently, then activating the various parts of the TARDIS to set them on their way. She didn't recognize them, but the TARDIS wouldn't deliberately set her off into danger.

Unless it was mad at her. Or bored. Or trying to send her a message. Or didn't like whoever it was she was traveling with. 

Missy tsked, hands primly crossed over the handle of her umbrella. 

"So where are we going?" The Doctor asked, and she tried to sound casual, as she got the TARDIS going, turning a switch here, pulling a lever there.

"Don't you trust me?" Missy asked, and she fluttered her eyelashes at the Doctor. "I just want us to have some _fun_!"

"We have different ideas about what counts as 'fun,'" the Doctor said, which was the diplomatic answer, really. 

"And yours is boring," Missy said promptly. 

"I knew you'd say that," said the Doctor, and she put the plague doctor mask on carefully, fastening the buckles on the back. Her vision was obstructed, which wasn't ideal, but she could take it off without too much trouble, if she needed to. her 

"Suits you," Missy said, and she held her arm out for the Doctor to take.

The Doctor put her hand on it, although she was much more used to leading. It was foreign, to be going along with Missy like this, but… well.

As selfish as this all was, and how really, she needed to send Missy away... she just wanted to hold on a little longer. Just a little bit. 

Missy held on to the doorknob, and she smiled at the Doctor with a few too many teeth. "Don't look so nervous, darling," she said. "Don't you trust me?" She leaned her umbrella against the console, possibly as a sign of good faith. 

"How can you tell if I'm nervous or not, with this thing on?" The Doctor tapped the beak of the plague doctor mask. Her chin felt oddly naked and exposed, probably because the rest of her face was covered. 

"I could read you like a book if my eyes were plucked out," Missy said promptly, and she threw the door open and stepped over the threshold like she was entering stage left. 

The Doctor had no choice but to follow.

* * *

The two of them were in a misty clearing, surrounded by tall trees. The trees were all rustling quietly, as if they were in a strong wind. 

There were three moons in the sky, and it wasn't exactly night, but it wasn't exactly day either. They were walking in a perpetual twilight, and when the Doctor looked up, the trees reached up towards the sky like skeletal hands. 

"So what are we doing here?" The Doctor let Missy lead her down one of the many long, winding paths between the trees. Some of them had leaves, and they made interesting shadows dance across the ground, shaken by the wind.

"A rare event," said Missy, and her tone was serene. 

It was putting the Doctor on edge.

"That isn't telling me much," the Doctor said, her tone cautious. "What kind of rare event?"

"The kind that doesn't happen often," said Missy, and she shot the Doctor a sidelong look, fluttering her eyelashes. "Don't you _trust_ me, Doctor?"

The Doctor was saved from having to answer that by a flicker out of the corner of her eye. She glanced over, and didn't see anything, but then there was another flicker. "What's going on?"

"Come dance with me, Doctor," said Missy, taking a few steps away from the Doctor and holding one hand out. Her fingers were very slender, and she had painted her nails the same deep, dark crimson of some internal organ. Her eyes gazed out of the holes of the mask, and the yellow painted leather seemed to _glow_ in the dim light, spots like little points of night. 

"Dance," the Doctor repeated, faintly incredulous. 

Missy hadn't tried anything especially... homicidal, since the two of them had started traveling together. She'd claimed to be turning over a new leaf (how many leaves had she been given, at this point?), and the Doctor, selfishly, hadn't been looking too close. 

But did she trust Missy?

"Dance," Missy repeated. "You've never been any good at it, but if you follow my lead you should at least manage not to step on my toes too much." 

"Why are you asking to dance with me while insulting my dancing skills?" The Doctor reached a hand out, cautiously. The flickering on the corners of her eyes was getting a little stronger, and she was tempted to take the mask off, to get a better look. Everything smelled like leather, which wasn't a _bad_ thing, per se, but there was a level of vulnerability here that she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. 

And there was Missy, standing with her hand outstretched.

"I'm not insulting you, dear, just setting my expectations out. Putting them on the table, as it were." Missy wriggled the fingers of her outstretched hand, one eyebrow up. "Well?" 

The Doctor placed the tips of her fingers into Missy's palm, and Missy's fingers closed around her own. She let herself be drawn in, Missy's arm around her waist, her hand held in Missy's. Missy's skirt whipped around her ankles, and Missy's eyes bored into her own through the holes of their mask. The long beak of the Doctor's mask was almost touching the black nose of Missy's, and the Doctor was very carefully not thinking about it. 

Missy started turning, and she was following some sort of stuttery almost-waltz that it took the Doctor a moment to acclimate, before she was more or less keeping time. It was a one-two-three-four, and there was a little jolt of anxiety when her brain caught up with her feet - was Missy hearing the drums again?

But the eyes looking up at her through the eyeholes of the cheetah mask were as sane as ever. Which was to say, not very sane, but... there wasn't too much of a difference. The Doctor did her best to follow her feet, and keep time with Missy. 

They waltzed through the trees, the shadows cast dramatically across the two of them, and the Doctor let herself be led, unease and enchantment roiling in her guts. There were other figures around them - she could make out skirts flaring, coat tails flying. They almost looked to be part of the mist itself, faded and soft around the edges, and they seemed to dissipate when the Doctor looked too closely at them. 

"What is this place?" The Doctor let herself be waltzed through another clearing, and there was the barest, flickering hint of torch light reflecting off the fog. When she glanced at it sidelong, through her mask, she almost saw figures, and what looked like... was that an altar? She turned to look completely, and it was just an old stone bench, shrouded in fog and dead leaves.

"It used to be a powerful place," said Missy, and she spun the Doctor carefully, letting go of one hand.

The Doctor let herself be spun, clutching at Missy's hand. There was a briskness to the air, like the beginning of autumn. The ground underfoot was damp, and the dead leaves sent their familiar musty scent as they were disturbed by her and Missy's boots. The lights seemed to be coming from the undersides of the leaves, and the figures all around them were getting brighter, more solid. 

"All that's left now is a memory," said Missy, and she spun the Doctor again, and pushed the Doctor's back against a tree. "A memory of power." She put her hands on the Doctor's shoulders, and she kept them there, pinning the Doctor in place. "Of... sacrifice." Her eyes glinted in the half light. 

"Sacrifice," the Doctor echoed. 

"It was all nonsense, of course," Missy said. "Blood sacrifices made when the three moons crown aren't going to bring about great power or wealth or whatever it was these people wanted." 

Missy pushed the Doctor’s mask up and off to the side, and she kissed the Doctor on the mouth. 

It wasn't exactly a surprise. The two of them had been intimate in just about every sense of the word, although the Doctor was still fairly awkward and fumbling in her new body. 

She let herself be guided into kissing Missy, her hands on Missy's shoulders, and she let Missy's tongue into her mouth, pressing closer. The hard boning of Missy's corset pressed against her stomach, and Missy's fingers were cool on the back of the Doctor's neck.

Then another cold thing was pressed against the Doctor's neck, and she froze, her eyes open. She stared into Missy's eyes, inches away from her own, and Missy stared back, calm as anything.

"Doctor," Missy said, and her lips moved against the Doctor's, "do you trust me?" 

The Doctor didn't answer that, because she didn't want to lie with a knife to her throat. She didn't even know what would be a lie, at this point. 

"Doctor," Missy repeated, and this time she _purred_ , and with that mask staring at her, the descriptor seemed especially apt. 

"Missy," the Doctor said back, carefully. The flat of the knife was pressed against her throat, and it was pressed just hard enough that her voice made the blade vibrate, just a little bit. 

"Do you trust me," Missy asked again. They were speaking very quietly. Her hearts were beating very hard against the Doctor’s own, and the Doctor could feel it through all the layers. 

The Doctor kissed Missy on the mouth, and the edge of the knife got her just on the bottom of her chin, and it stung. 

Missy kissed her back, tongue in the Doctor’s mouth, holding the knife steadily. Then she broke the kiss, pulling back to stare into the Doctor’s eyes. She pulled the knife away, carefully, and she stepped back. She held the knife out to the Doctor, hilt first, and there was something in her eyes that the Doctor didn’t entirely understand. 

"D'you trust _me_ ," the Doctor countered, and she took the knife.

"Of course I do," Missy said, and her tone was almost dismissive. "I know you're a good person.'

The Doctor sighed, and she held the knife in her hand. The hilt was heavy in her hand, and there was a ruby in the pommel, pressing into her palm. It felt like she was being tested, but she didn't know what the test was, and she was somehow failing it. She pushed the mask further up her forehead, so that she could see Missy properly (and probably looked like a strange, demented unicorn), and the misty figures were getting a little more solid around her. More like figures shaped out of cellophane, or maybe people filmed from a distance through a lens covered in petroleum jelly. 

"Why did you bring me here?" The Doctor asked, and her voice was quiet. She could almost hear the music now, and the moonlight seemed to be getting brighter.

"I wanted to show you something interesting," Missy said. "You're always showing your companions wonderful sights. I thought it was my turn." There was something almost... brittle in the way she was standing there, her hands clasped together and the moon throwing her face into stark relief. She looked a bit like a wood block print, and the Doctor's hearts swelled with some emotion that was too complicated to name. 

"Thank you," the Doctor said. "It were very kind." She was still holding the knife, and she was faintly discombobulated. Something was going to go off kilter. Missy was going to... what, try to kill her? Summon up some ancient terror?

"My favorite part is coming up," Missy said, and she was looking up. The line of her throat was like the graceful curl in a cat's tail, and the Doctor's fingers tightened reflexively around the knife's handle. 

"Is it going to be bloody?" The Doctor asked. 

"It was, in the old days," Missy said, and she sighed theatrically, and crossed her arms across her chest. "And... now. There we go."

The branches began to glow, at first like dusty after-image, then brighter, until the trees were veins with burning crimson. 

The Doctor was smiling, her whole face stretched wide. She tilted her head back, and her hair tickled the back of her neck as she watched the lights moving under the bark. She could probably figure out how it worked without too much thought, but just for now... she was going to enjoy the sight of it. 

"They thought it was an omen for a cleansing," Missy said. "This happens every sixty years or so, due to a build up of bioluminescent organisms. So there'd be a new crop of people to cleanse. They had a whole lottery for it and everything, very _Survivor_." She grinned, and her teeth looked bloody in the red glow.

The Doctor wrinkled her nose. “Y’had to spoil it, didn’t you?” She sighed. “And those were the sacrifices?” 

“I made it interesting,” Missy said gaily, “but if you’re that annoyed, you should punish me.” She gave a saucy, theatrical wink, like something out of an old movie. 

The Doctor sighed. “Really?” She wanted to cross her arms, then remembered she was holding a knife. “Are you really trying to… incite me into something?” 

“It isn’t as if I could _ask_ ,” Missy said. “Takes all of the fun out of it, doesn’t it.”

“What are you even asking _for_?” The Doctor sighed, exasperated. Why was it always some game, with Missy?

Missy smiled wider, and she looked downright _gruesome_ , like something out of a Victorian tableau to scare children. She moved closer to the Doctor, and the Doctor shifted, taking steps back, until Missy’s back was against the glowing red tree, their previous positions reversed. 

The Doctor let Missy take the hand holding the knife, and she watched, wide eyed, as Missy pressed the flat of the blade against her own throat. “Do you trust me, Doctor?” 

She was staring at the Doctor like a snake, and the Doctor was, abruptly, sick of it. Sick of Missy’s games, sick of the heartache that twisted in her guts when she looked into Missy’s eyes, remembered what hadn’t happened yet.

“Turn around,” the Doctor said, her voice harsher than she meant it to be, and Missy raised an eyebrow. “Please,” the Doctor added, faintly sheepish.

“Aw, and you were just making it interesting,” Missy said, but she did turn around.She even put her hands flat on the trunk. 

“Interesting,” the Doctor echoed, and maybe it was her tone of own voice that caught her off guard. She pressed closer to Missy, pressing her flatter against the trunk. She was breathing on Missy’s neck, disturbing a few of the little hairs that had escaped the braids, and she pressed her nose in, taking in the scent. 

Ginger hair oil, musky perfume, warm skin, and the familiarity of her dearest enemy. The knife was still in her hand, and didn’t know if she’d ever been so aware of a thing in her hand before. She leaned back a bit, bringing the edge of the knife against the very back of Missy’s neck.

Missy froze against her, and the Doctor hated the little thrill of delight that shot through her. “Do you trust me,” the Doctor whispered, and she pressed the knife a little bit harder. There was a little line of blood that slid down, to soak into the starched collar of Missy’s blouse. 

Missy shuddered, and her head tilted back, her mouth falling open. “I’ll die all over again before I give you an answer to _that_ ,” Missy said, and the Doctor wasn’t sure if she sounded like she was trying to goad the Doctor on, or warn her off. 

The Doctor ran the edge of the knife along Missy’s back, just hard enough to cut through the thin fabric of Missy’s blouse. She met the stiffness of Missy’s corset, and she shoved the two halves of fabric off to the side. She leaned forward… then took her mask off, letting it fall to the ground. It was hard enough to concentrate without that strange unicorn horn poking out of her forehead. 

Missy’s bare shoulders were very pale, and the ridges of Missy’s spine stood out like a mountain range. Her corset was a deep, dark red, and the laces looked like they were made of black silk ribbon. It sliced with a sound like a whisper, and then the front of the corset was sagging forward. 

“Oh,” Missy said thickly, and she pressed her forehead against the glowing tree trunk. “I liked that corset,” she said, but there was a distracted note to the reprimand.

The Doctor didn’t respond, just shoved the corset down and off. She ran the flat of the knife along the pale expanse of Missy’s back, and it was bright enough that she could see the goosebumps springing up. The knife was very shiny, and the rubies in the blade seemed to catch the light, reflect it back that much redder. Missy moaned when the flat of the blade was dragged across her back, and she went stock when the Doctor scraped the point across her ribs.

“Oh,” Missy said again. “This is a new side of you, Doctor. I’m so impressed I won’t even complain about you ruining my favorite corset.” 

“You showed me something new,” the Doctor said, trying to keep her tone even, “‘s’only fair for me to return the favor.” _She’s probably done something like this with other people_ , the more clinical part of the Doctor’s mind said, but she ignored it, watching the way the skin was turning redder from the scraping - or was that just more of the red light reflecting back at them?

“Didn’t realize you were starting to f-f-follow the principles of… fairness,” said Missy, and she gave a guttural groan when the very tip of the blade passed against the underside of one breast. 

The Doctor didn’t answer. She pressed herself against Missy’s back, grabbing Missy’s breast with her free hand. She kissed along Missy’s neck, the way that had always made her old friend go weak in the knees, and sure enough, Missy sighed, slackened against her. 

The Doctor pressed the flat of the blade against one of Missy’s hard nipples, and she pinched the other one, rolling it between her fingers. She bit Missy’s neck, none too gently, and Missy moaned again, harder. 

“This is a s-side of you that doesn’t come out much,” Missy slurred, and she hissed, as the Doctor gave her nipple an especially hard tug. 

_You never really give me a chance,_ the Doctor thought, and she bit Missy, right under the ear. 

Missy moaned again, arching into it, and the Doctor took as much of Missy’s breast in her hand that she could fit and _squeezed_. That brought forth a wheezing, gasping moan, and the Doctor smiled in spite of herself, and pressed the edge of the knife along Missy’s sternum, just light enough to scratch. There were a few little drops of blood against the Doctor’s fingertips, and Missy’s hearts were beating a desperate staccato tattoo. 

Missy widened her stance, and she sighed, as the Doctor’s hand left her breast, to slip into the waistband of her skirt, into her knickers. Her garter was tight against the back of the Doctor’s hand, but it would take too much effort to undo the whole garment - she just wriggled her way into the tight confines of the fabric, Missy’s pubic hair ticklish against her fingertips. Missy was trembling against her, although she knew the Time Lady would die before admitting to _that_. 

The Doctor found Missy’s knickers wet against her knuckles, Missy’s vulva wet enough to start pruning her fingers up. She rubbed her fingers over Missy’s clit, and Missy’s hips rolled to meet it, her breath loud. 

The flickering around them continued - it was almost like the figures around them were all dancing, and wouldn’t _that_ be strange, to be in the center of a grand party, fucking her best enemy?

… It wouldn’t be the first time, come to think of it, and the Doctor smiled a bit in spite of herself.

One of Missy’s hands wrapped around the Doctor’s wrist, bringing it up to her throat. With the way they were standing, the tip of the blade almost got the Doctor in the cheek, and she leaned back. “What are you doing?” The Doctor asked, and she’d be embarrassed at the way her voice cracked if her whole _self_ hadn’t been pulsing with desperate, anxious arousal. 

“Do you trust me, Doctor?” Missy asked, and she pressed the knife in the Doctor’s hand a little harder against her own neck. She was rolling her hips, and the Doctor had to keep her arm very still to keep from nicking her. 

There was wetness on the Doctor’s face, and it might have been tears, might have been sweat. She wasn’t paying any attention to it, because she had to keep one hand moving and one arm utterly still. She pressed her forehead into the back of Missy’s head, and the braids and pins were little bits of texture against her, grounding her.

Missy’s fingers dug into the Doctor’s wrist when she came, and her cunt trembled against the Doctor’s hand, her clit throbbing. She let go of the Doctor’s wrist, and the Doctor let the knife fall to the ground, pulling Missy closer to her and kissing along her neck, her shoulders. 

The Doctor made a surprised noise when Missy turned around, grabbed her by the lapels and shoving her. She squeaked when her back hit the tree again, and then Missy was bending down in front of her, still wearing the cheetah mask. For the sake of her own sanity, the Doctor pushed it off of Missy’s face, letting it drop beside her own mask.

Missy made an annoyed face, and she unbuttoned the Doctor’s trousers, yanking them and the Doctor’s boxers down in one go. “You ruin all my fun, why don’t ya,” she said, her tone scolding, and she kept eye contact as she leaned forward to lick the Doctor’s clit.

The Doctor moaned up into the glowing red branches, one hand in her own hair, one hand going to rest on top of Missy’s. She tangled her fingers in the braids, and a few of the pins dug into her fingers, but that didn’t matter, none of that mattered. All that mattered - _ever_ \- was Missy’s hot wet tongue swiping over her clit, Missy’s clever, bony fingers pressing inside of her cunt. 

The figures around them were still dancing away, but the Doctor didn’t know if they were watching, if they were real, if they were getting more solid or flimsy or… what. The tree’s bark was biting into her back, and her calf was starting to cramp up as Missy licked her with a brutal efficiency. The whole of her body was primed - had been primed since she’d seen Missy in the shower, since Missy had said they should do something special, since Missy had shown up on her TARDIS for some unknown reason. 

She stared up at the three moons, as the pressure inside of her built and built. Missy’s tongue was tracing tight little circles around the tip of the Doctor’s clit, and Missy’s fingers were digging into the Doctor’s thighs. It was going to be bruised, although Missy was going to be all marked up from the scratches from the knife, so fair was fair, right?

Missy’s lips fastened on to the Doctor’s clit and sucked, her fingers curling inside of the Doctor. She pressed down on something internal, and then it was like a thread being yanked out of a tapestry, and the whole thing unwound. She came against Missy’s face, pleasure blooming out from her clit, her guts. Her cunt pulsed around Missy’s fingers, and it all went a little foggy. 

When the Doctor came back to herself, she was kissing the Doctor again, and the Doctor licked the sharp taste of herself off of Missy’s lips. 

When they pulled apart again, Missy stepped back, stretching. Some of her braids had come loose, but most of them had stayed pinned up. The Doctor was proud, in spite of herself. Then she frowned, noting Missy’s bare arms, hard nipples. Hadn’t thought that one through, had she?

“That’s awfully gallant of you,” Missy said, as the Doctor’s coat settled around her shoulders, buttoning it closed. 

“Thank you,” the Doctor said. “For taking me here, I mean.” She rubbed her hands together, not sure what to say next.

Missy smiled at the Doctor, and she held a hand out. “I told you, you can trust me,” she said, and the Doctor couldn’t actually tell if Missy was being serious or not.

The Doctor’s eyes darted from Missy’s eyes to Missy’s outstretched hand. Whatever choice she was probably going to be significant in the years to come. She met Missy’s eyes, in that light the color of the artificial cherries, and she decided, just this once, to trust.

**Author's Note:**

> They're not _exactly_ ghosts, but I wasn't sure what else to call them.


End file.
